


At the Sky

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Community: numb3rsflashfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>No one had ever shot him when he was playing baseball.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Charlie, Don, and Numb3rs belong to Cheryl Heuton, Nicolas Falacci, and some people at CBS who aren't me.
> 
> This story was first posted February 6, 2006.

Don was on his back, staring at the sky and wondering, not for the first time, why this was better than baseball.

There was the cool factor, of course, but, hey, baseball was cool. Minor league ball couldn't beat the FBI, though, and he'd never have made it to the bigs. He was pretty sure he'd never have made it to the bigs. Maybe he should have been patient, stuck it out a little longer. He'd been happy playing baseball, really. No one had ever shot him when he was playing baseball.

But his heart hadn't been in it anymore, after he realized he was only good, and not great. He wasn't sure he was a great FBI agent. He didn't think great FBI agents found themselves lying in the street, staring up at the sky and rethinking their career choices. But he was good at his job, and he couldn't say his heart wasn't in it, after all. Ten years in, it was still the last thing he thought of at night and the first in the morning, once he started thinking about anything at all.

Baseball had been like that once, but now it was the Bureau. He didn't have any pithy reasons he could recite to himself at moments like this. Terry probably did, something about making the world a better place or protecting the innocent by kicking the asses of the guilty or doing good works. Don never really thought about it when he had a reasonable command of his verbal skills. It just was how it was. He did the work he did, because it was his work. He just knew.

That was what they said, wasn't it, about love? You just knew. And even if he kept winding up lying in the street looking up at the sky--even if at some point he wound up lying in the street, _not_ looking up at the sky--he knew. This was what he would do: because it was cool, because it was important, because he was good at it. Because he loved it.

Don opened his eyes on the bright blue glare above him, wondering when he'd closed them, and then looked down from the sky to Terry, crouching at his side. "It's love," he said.

Terry didn't quite smile as she patted him on the vest, thoughfully to one side of where he'd been shot. "Don, you have a concussion."

He closed his eyes again and curled his mouth into a smile. "Terry, I don't have a concussion."

"If you try to stand up again, I'll give you one."

Don tried to nod and winced. Maybe he'd hit his head harder than he thought, going down. "I wasn't talking about you, anyway."

"Uh-huh," Terry said. "Oh, look, here come the paramedics."


End file.
